Nov 23, 2015
Last Wednesday morning when I walked into Angie's Diner in Midway Amy the waitress rushed to me and gave me a little hug as she explained that Ricky Phillips had called early that morning to announce that Jimmy Smith had died. After quickly saying that a shock ran through the kitchen and they were pondering over the news Ricky called again to say he had the wrong Jimmy and in fact it had been Jimmy Sasser who died. Jimmy and I both were native liberty countians and our whole lives had been spent in the Mcintosh Community which is at about the center of the county. Jimmy was one year behind me in age as I was born in April of 1943 and Jimmy Sasser was born on July 7,1944. Knowing Ricky Phillips as I do it is easy to see how he got confused as after all we both had the same first names and anybody could make that mistake when reporting the news of someone's death. It was one of those Jimmy's from McIntosh lets spread the news.
Monday, November 23, 2015
Wednesday, January 14, 2015
The Mule Story
Dear Deb Oct 31, 09
Jimmy Smith
McIntosh, Ga.
Debra Peace
Statesboro, Ga.
In your recent email you mentioned the story about the mule, which Mama shot accidentally. That was one of many misadventures we have had during my lifetime. Let me tell you the whole story.
The time must have been around 1984. I as you know have never been a horse person but for some crazy damn reason I bought a young unbroken mule, which had been born on Mr. Futch’s farm near the Hinesville Cemetery on South Main Ext. Seems like I had recently been informed that mules didn’t actually reproduce but were the product of cross breeding between horses and jackasses or something like that. Probably the element of jackass got my attention as they have so many times during my journey through this life*. Seems like I’m drawn to them like a magnet. Or is it the other way around. I don’t know but it is whatever it is.
Anyway I had heard that Knot Futch had a newborn baby mule. At that time Cousin Phil and his wife of the era Pam whom I called strawberry (because of the color of her hair and now I suspect the content of her head) were big in the horse business. Phil and I went to the Futch farm to see the little thing and I ended up owning her and I honestly don’t know why. Must have been feeling no pain at the time, which is quite likely when cousin Phil and I go cruising. At any rate Knot and I struck a deal and I think it was for $150.
I went to Mama’s and built a small pen about 16 by 16 with boards from ground up to about four feet. I thought that would be adequate to hold her until she got larger by which time I planned to build her a larger pen. Bad assumption on my part. Not trusting Knot I had not paid him but promised him I would come back soon. Strawberry was the expert horse person and she assured us that we could tranquilize the little thing and transport her in the open bed of Phil’s pickup truck therefore we would avoid having to hook up their horse trailer. Although I was skeptical we loaded up and headed out to pick her up and bring her home. Second bad assumption. Turned out to be quite exciting as we passed your Daddy’s place on McLarry’s curve.
Phil Strawberry and I got geared up and went cruising out to the Futch farm enjoying the ride if you know what I mean. Knot met us at the barn where he had the little darling in a small corral that we could back the truck into. Knot had a rope around her neck and I think she had a halter thing on her head but I’m not certain about that. Along with Knot we cruised the pasture before loading up. I think Phil might have been looking for mushrooms or something but there were no cows there.
By this time nobody was feeling any pain except the mule and that would be altered shortly. Knot held the rope as we opened the gate and backed the truck into the pen and up to the livestock chute. As he led the little (about three and a half feet tall at the shoulders) girl up and into the back of Phil’s truck Strawberry pulled out a syringe with a needle that looked like a sixteen penny finishing nail and started drawing some solution into the syringe. The needle found it’s mark and slowly like a balloon being deflated the mule collapsed onto the bed of the truck. I handed over the money and we all said goodbye and got into the truck.
Now the mule was feeling less pain than any of the rest of us. As a matter of fact the fog must have lifted a little bit because as we pulled up to enter the highway it dawned on me that I might ought to get in the back of the truck with her just in case she woke up. Good assumption on my part. Notice how assumptions and jackasses or their offspring all seem to wind up in the company of one another. Phil stopped the truck and I got into the back with the mule. I sat there beside her (she looked very dead) and wondered how long it might take for her to awaken. I was soon to learn that as about the time we entered McLarry’s curve we met a convoy of westbound transfer trucks roaring past in the opposite direction. The wind and the noise awoke the little darling and she decided she would stand up and for the rest of the ride it was two jackasses wrestling in the bed of a Ford pickup. That is something I don’t think I’ll ever forget. Talk about “kicking” and with four feet it was exciting to say the least. It was a hell of a scuffle but with the Grace of God I managed to prevail. I was top jackass.
That brings up another memory. Instead of drag racing back in the day when we were teenagers we would get into someone’s car and see how fast the driver could go around the curve at McLarry’s. Allegedly Pete Clark held the record in a 1957 Ford Station wagon. Recently Jackie Floyd reminded me of us doing that in my 1956 Dodge. I had many exciting trips around that curve until one day your Daddy took me aside in your back yard and said “Son you’re just about to overdo it coming around this curve”. Homer only called me son when he was very serious and the tone of his voice that day was, well you kids know what I mean and the look in his eyes you also know. That day ended my exciting trips around the curve and some had been indeed thrilling.
I never had a thrill on that curve from speed that could hold a candle to wrestling with a mule facing you with it’s head thrashing about and kicking with all four feet. I did the only thing I could do. I put my arms around her neck and hugged her like I’ve never hugged any other creature on this earth. About the time we pulled into Mama’s me and the mule both were exhausted. I think she must have made a vow then and there that I would never get another hug from her. She was stubborn as a mule is supposed to be because although I was her daily caregiver I would not touch her again until two years later when I buried her. We unloaded her into the little pen and that would turn out to be the last time she tolerated a hand on her. I learned that a few days later when I assumed (#3) she might be comfortable in her new home and I entered her pen to begin the process of training her. As I entered the pen and closed the gate she took one look at me and flatfootedly jumped out of the pen and must have cleared the fence by two feet or more. Man what a steeple chaser she would have made.
Fortunately she did not run off and Mama and I were able to gently herd her into Mama’s back yard and then into the chicken pen where I could lock her up for the time being. She remained in the chicken yard a couple of days while I was constructing a larger pen with field fence wire about four feet tall. I configured the pen so it would extend from her other small pen and connect to the rear of the chicken yard. The chickens were nervous and the egg count dropped off and the Irene watch intensified regarding the construction of the new fence. I enlisted some help from cousin Phil and put a rush job on that fence. When it was completed I just cut the chicken yard fence and drove Ramona into the new home where she would remain the rest of her days. Leslie had given her the name and it stuck.
As humorous as this story is it was truly a sad situation for Ramona because she never got to do anything but eat drink and walk about her pen. I had a huge yellow umbrella and I erected it in the corner of her yard and she spent many hours standing under it watching the world go by. I attended to her needs as best I could under the circumstance but I never would again attempt to do anything with her because I had accepted the fact that she was a lot like Elliott Ness. Besides that I was also very much aware that she could leave anytime she wanted to.
I think she did become comfortable with the chickens and Mama, as she would observe Mama’s presence daily in the chicken yard. I think she assumed she had no threat from them. Bad assumption on her part. It proved to bring about her demise. To my knowledge she never found her voice because she never made a sound.
Then one weekend when Leslie and I were out on the boat for a trip to St. Catherine’s Island there was a terrible accident at the mule farm. Upon returning to Half Moon marina there was a note on the windshield of the truck advising that I must call home immediately. When Mama answered the phone she was squalling like a baby and was barely able to tell me what the problem was. Gasping she blurted out “Son I killed Ramona”. It seems that Mama had discovered a big ole garter snake curled up in a chicken nest while he digested a couple of eggs. Mama hurried to the house to fetch the 410 while Ramona observed the excitement. Ramona was leaning across the fence peeping into the back of the structure with the row of nest in it. Mama blew the snake into a couple of pieces and in the process a good portion of the load hit Ramona square in one eye. Phil was summoned and later told me that the only thing he could do was end her misery with another shot to “put her down”. I spent the next day pondering how I would get her body to a place where I could dig a grave with the least difficulty. The following morning Mama’s grief had subsided to some extent and the Irene watch started to intensify regarding burial. I’ll tell you this much the only thing worse than possessing a two-year-old unbroken mule was having a two-day-old unburied dead mule. And that’s pretty much the whole story.
Love
Uncle Jimmy
*My book will be entitled CROSSING FOOLS HILL
STORE BOUGHT PANTS
STORE BOUGHT PANTS
My Mama was a very talented seamstress who worked in our house to serve the needs of all who inquired of her services. If they brought some fabric and a pattern Mama would create the piece no matter how simple or difficult. She made the Cheerleader outfits, suits and dresses for the ladies. She would alter things bought at the store, which did not fit the person just right. She served the very well to do as well as the poor and not so fortunate. She made the bridesmaids gowns for some of the larger weddings back in the fifties.
She altered the brand new things from the store as well as the old clothes, which had become too small for the person. Many of the military brought their uniforms to have the insignia changed when they were promoted. She made the drapes, which adorned the windows of many of the finer homes in the county. She created “slip covers” for worn sofas and large stuffed chairs of many of those same houses. She “pegged” the legs of blue jeans for the teenage boys when that was fashionable.
In short she did it all by working long hours throughout the day while at the same time preparing outrageous meals three times a day and then worked late into the night after supper. It gave me an unusual benefit of being allowed to stay up late as long as I did not distract her. I spent many a long evening lying on the floor near the sewing machine and watching her. I recall the fascination of her pedaling the machine in the early days and then one day the “Singer man” showed her an amazing thing. It was a contraption consisting of a small electric motor attached by wire to pedal switch on a little box on the floor and operated by her foot. After that the cast iron pedal was disconnected and remained idle for the duration. I missed watching her foot rhythmically maintain the speed of the machine as she fed the material into the machine where the threaded needle did the stitching. However that was progress and before too long the old machine would be abandoned as a brand new Singer Slant O Matic, which had all of the bells and whistles, replaced it. I proudly possess that machine today and will one day give it to someone in the family.
She did all of this while cooking for three adults in the household along with my brother and sister as well as me and she carried meals next door to Grandma’s house. Oh and she also found the time to manage a flock of chickens and attend a bountiful garden, which required many hours of hoeing and pulling weeds. Furthermore the bounty from that garden would be canned and put up in Mason jars for the meals to come in the wintertime. Later we would acquire a freezer for storing those same vegetables. Progress was replacing traditional methods of doing things. I am sure that I grew up during the most joyous time in the history of the world. We were all very happy indeed.
Until I started to school Mama made all of my clothes as well as those of my sister June. When I was in the eighth grade we had a Sadie Hawkins day in the springtime. Mama and June chose my outfit for that day. It consisted of a pair of charcoal gray Bermuda shorts from J.C. Penny, which sported a hiney binder just above the back pockets, pink knee socks and white buck shoes. She bought some matching gray and pink material and fabricated a beautiful shirt. The body of the shirt was gray and the yoke was pink as well as the sleeves and it had gray epaulets. I was one proud little sucker when I got off of the school bus and walked toward the eighth grade wing. I paraded around all day long. My sister was the best-dressed girl in the school always.
June was always quite content to wear a custom made wardrobe but even at a very young age I secretly longed to have clothes, which had been bought ready made from the store especially pants. The pants Mama made me always had elastic sewn into the waistband sometimes a pocket or two on the front or rear. Little boys need pockets you know. About the time I entered the first grade Mama started buying my pants at either Sears or Pennys although she continued to make almost all of my shirts for a good many years even into high school. It is funny how you can remember some things from so very long ago. I recall very clearly the first pair of pants that I had from the store. I must have been about four or five because I was just tall enough that my waist was a little bit above a coffee table. It was denim jeans with full-length legs, pockets (four maybe) and elastic waistband. Actually they looked just like the ones Mama made except they had all of the pockets and a manufacturer’s label. They were special and I only wore them on occasion. I think the very first time I wore them was one weekend when we went to visit Aunt Sweet and Aunt Evelyn and Uncle Kelly. We had been to church and had all gathered at Uncle Kelly’s. I believe Aunt Dell and uncle Brunell were there along with others possible. At any rate a number of ladies as well as men were seated around Aunt Evelyn’s living room and I was the only child in the room. I was as proud as a peacock in my new pants and I stood by the coffee table in the midst of the room with the adults seated all around. Uncle Kelly leaned forward from where he was seated and gently caught my waistband and gave it a little snap. I beamed with pride. A little while later he did it again and then he said those look like girl pants to me to which I responded no they are not. I remember then and there that I wished they had belt loops and I had a belt. Uncle Kelly would do that again and again when I was within his reach each time he would say those are girl pants. Finally I couldn’t take it any more and I stood beside the coffee table across from the adults and reached my little fingers into the fly which was sewn into the pants (but did not have a zipper) and I pulled my little penis out and said see there these are boy pants. Uncle Kelly’s face and balding head turned red and the ladies froze because I turned to display the fact that they indeed were not girl pants at all. So there it was, I had store bought pants and they were indeed boy’s pants.
Jimmy Smith
A tale from the Goshen about “A MAN’S CROSSING FOOLS HILL”
Wednesday, September 25, 2013
A COMMUNITY LIVING BY THE WHISTLE
McIntosh was a community which lived by the whistle.
My family homestead was less than two miles from the Atlantic Coastline railroad where it crossed the Old Sunbury Road. The Sunbury road is the first roadway into the interior of Colonial Georgia. When I was a small boy I remember hearing the sounds of the trains passing through McIntosh and the whistle at the largest of several sawmill operations positioned in the tiny community.
The entire community lived by the whistle. If there was a disaster such as a fire at the mill or a home burning nearby there was a certian whistle code which was known by residents. This series of toots done with an almost musical rythem alerted the community of the impending disaster. It was usually a fire on the millyard.
Fires burned continuously throughout the forties and fifties as the gigantic sawdust piles were burning endlessly as well as the slab pile. Steam clouds also could be seen wafting into the sky from the boiler behind the planner mill. Steam was the source of the sound of the whistle. The boiler was located at the rear of the millyard but the whistle was visible from all around because it stood high above the boiler complex on a pipe which I'd estimate was probably about two or three inches in diameter.
My family homestead was less than two miles from the Atlantic Coastline railroad where it crossed the Old Sunbury Road. The Sunbury road is the first roadway into the interior of Colonial Georgia. When I was a small boy I remember hearing the sounds of the trains passing through McIntosh and the whistle at the largest of several sawmill operations positioned in the tiny community.
The entire community lived by the whistle. If there was a disaster such as a fire at the mill or a home burning nearby there was a certian whistle code which was known by residents. This series of toots done with an almost musical rythem alerted the community of the impending disaster. It was usually a fire on the millyard.
Fires burned continuously throughout the forties and fifties as the gigantic sawdust piles were burning endlessly as well as the slab pile. Steam clouds also could be seen wafting into the sky from the boiler behind the planner mill. Steam was the source of the sound of the whistle. The boiler was located at the rear of the millyard but the whistle was visible from all around because it stood high above the boiler complex on a pipe which I'd estimate was probably about two or three inches in diameter.
Friday, August 9, 2013
Our first family automobile was a blue 1941 Ford Tudor Coupe. It was purchased from Hinesville Ford in 1946. Until recently I had been of the impression that it was a 1946 but I now know that the 1941 and 1946 Fords were almost identical. It seems that sometime in 1941 or 1942 the automobile industry in America ceased building civilian vehicles in order to convert their factories for building Military vehicles for the war effort.
I remember the day Daddy brought the car home and I was three years old. Now some 67 years later I am seventy years old and although I am not as steady on my feet as times past I still enjoy near excellent health. I suspect that is the result of the time in which I have lived and the conditions of that existence.
Glad that I can recall the old days at the Homer Smith homestead in McIntosh. We did not own an automobile for the first three years of my life and my Mama never drove a vehicle until after my Daddy's death in 1973. In the old days of the mid to late forties there were only a few people who owned their own vehicles. I remember Daddy driving a company truck home from work in the evenings.
I remember the day Daddy brought the car home and I was three years old. Now some 67 years later I am seventy years old and although I am not as steady on my feet as times past I still enjoy near excellent health. I suspect that is the result of the time in which I have lived and the conditions of that existence.
Glad that I can recall the old days at the Homer Smith homestead in McIntosh. We did not own an automobile for the first three years of my life and my Mama never drove a vehicle until after my Daddy's death in 1973. In the old days of the mid to late forties there were only a few people who owned their own vehicles. I remember Daddy driving a company truck home from work in the evenings.
Thursday, June 13, 2013
We lived on the edge of a swamp on a parcel of land beside the highway which was less than thirty feet above sea level I think. Often our vegetable garden would flood and perish as a result of too much water. My Daddy could make very shallow trenches across the yard and you would see the tiny streams make there way from one basin to another and gradually dry up a spot which had formally been standing water. Daddy had a gift for seeing the rise and fall of terrain and I inherited that gift from him. Actually that is one of two gifts I inherited from Daddy, the other being the love for trees and the interest in planting them. Later I will dwell on planting trees but for now I want to tell about my water park which I enjoy still.
As I've stated before the Homer and Irene Smith homestead was carved from the eastern portion of the Quarterman estate. Apparently the Quartermans decided to sell four lots fronting on the highway and each being one acre. They were each one hundred feet wide at the front and a little over four hundred feet deep. A square acre is 208.7 by 208.7.
My Grandma lived in a house in the first of the four lots and we lived in a house in the fourth of the four lots. Fraser Lumber Co. Purchased the lot where my family lived sometime before my birth in 1943. Drinking water was provided by the well at the Quarterman house. A galvanized pipe line ran under the field which separated Grandma's house from the Quarterman place. that line supplied water to both Grandma and to us as well. We did not have an indoor bathroom until I was about four or five. It was somewhere around that age that Daddy purchased the two lots in the middle and we had a well drilled on the land beside Grandma's house. I've always been told that the well was seven hundred feet deep. It was heavily sulfur and I never knew that there was anything wrong with that. People who were not accustomed to that water often declined to drink it. Our family all enjoyed very good health and to this day I believe that well water contributed to that fact.
At any rate when the well was finished we had an abundance of fresh cold water as the natural pressure forced a constant overflow which ran down beside Grandma's driveway and emptied into the ditch beside the highway. Our homestead had always been subject to hold water as the terrain was low and now there was a constant flow of water discharging into the ditch. It made for the absolutely most marvelous thing for a little boy to grow up with. I've spent my entire life playing in ditches and building toy boats and creating dams so as to make waterfalls.
As I've stated before the Homer and Irene Smith homestead was carved from the eastern portion of the Quarterman estate. Apparently the Quartermans decided to sell four lots fronting on the highway and each being one acre. They were each one hundred feet wide at the front and a little over four hundred feet deep. A square acre is 208.7 by 208.7.
My Grandma lived in a house in the first of the four lots and we lived in a house in the fourth of the four lots. Fraser Lumber Co. Purchased the lot where my family lived sometime before my birth in 1943. Drinking water was provided by the well at the Quarterman house. A galvanized pipe line ran under the field which separated Grandma's house from the Quarterman place. that line supplied water to both Grandma and to us as well. We did not have an indoor bathroom until I was about four or five. It was somewhere around that age that Daddy purchased the two lots in the middle and we had a well drilled on the land beside Grandma's house. I've always been told that the well was seven hundred feet deep. It was heavily sulfur and I never knew that there was anything wrong with that. People who were not accustomed to that water often declined to drink it. Our family all enjoyed very good health and to this day I believe that well water contributed to that fact.
At any rate when the well was finished we had an abundance of fresh cold water as the natural pressure forced a constant overflow which ran down beside Grandma's driveway and emptied into the ditch beside the highway. Our homestead had always been subject to hold water as the terrain was low and now there was a constant flow of water discharging into the ditch. It made for the absolutely most marvelous thing for a little boy to grow up with. I've spent my entire life playing in ditches and building toy boats and creating dams so as to make waterfalls.
Wednesday, May 29, 2013
The Quarterman estate was originally all of that area from John Mann road on the western side to my families homestead on the eastern side. The Old Sunbury Road was the boundary on the southern side and the Goshen swamp surrounded the northern side. The Quarterman family divided the property and Mr. Henry Rahn, who married Helen Quarterman and thus was son-in-law to the Quartermans, became owner of the western portion of the estate. They divided some of their land and there were four homestead sites created. From the highway on John Mann road the first homestead was owned by Herbert and Guy Down's parents. Herbert was a year or so older than me and Guy was exactly one year younger than me as we were both born on the third of April.
The second homestead was the Bill Peyton family who were my Aunt and Uncle. They had four children John L., Virginia, Allison and Diane. Behind aunt Netherae's (Bill Peyton's) was the home of the Easton family and then the Selph family. Beyond that was the sandpit and as the road twisted and turned into a virtual causeway as it crossed the channel of the Goshen. There were two bridges constructed of logs taken from cypress trees in the swamp. The sandpit was our playground and beyond that was the ever beautiful swamp. I regret that the swamp was drained in the name of progress in 1973 and 74. Until that time the swamp had never (in my lifetime) been dry. However at the time of the draining of the Goshen it had ceased to hold as much water because the many flowing wells in our area had gradually ceased to flow naturally after Interstate Paper Co. opened in the late sixties.
The area was always wet and standing water was a constant battle for residents. My very earliest memories are of watching Daddy digging shallow trenches connecting all of the puddles and ultimately directing the runoff to the ditch alongside the highway. The big red Quarterman house was positioned on the highest point of elevation and the sea level dropped steadily in our direction as our house was positioned on the lowest elevation of the four one acre lots on the eastern part of the Quarterman property.
The second homestead was the Bill Peyton family who were my Aunt and Uncle. They had four children John L., Virginia, Allison and Diane. Behind aunt Netherae's (Bill Peyton's) was the home of the Easton family and then the Selph family. Beyond that was the sandpit and as the road twisted and turned into a virtual causeway as it crossed the channel of the Goshen. There were two bridges constructed of logs taken from cypress trees in the swamp. The sandpit was our playground and beyond that was the ever beautiful swamp. I regret that the swamp was drained in the name of progress in 1973 and 74. Until that time the swamp had never (in my lifetime) been dry. However at the time of the draining of the Goshen it had ceased to hold as much water because the many flowing wells in our area had gradually ceased to flow naturally after Interstate Paper Co. opened in the late sixties.
The area was always wet and standing water was a constant battle for residents. My very earliest memories are of watching Daddy digging shallow trenches connecting all of the puddles and ultimately directing the runoff to the ditch alongside the highway. The big red Quarterman house was positioned on the highest point of elevation and the sea level dropped steadily in our direction as our house was positioned on the lowest elevation of the four one acre lots on the eastern part of the Quarterman property.
Friday, May 17, 2013
Yesterday I received a call from Tommy Rahn an old friend and neighbor who lived in a nice home which was located at what is currently the main entrance to the Liberty County High School. Tommy is the Grandson of Mr Quarterman who lived in the big red two story structure which many will remember as the Kozma house. Tommy told me that originally the Quarterman family and the Rahn family owned all of the land from the highway to the swamp from my Fathers place on the east to John Mann road on the west. I would guess that distance to be just over a half mile. I don't know how many acres it would compute to be. I imagine it would bee more than sixty acres but not a hundred. When I discover a more accurate estimate I will inject it into a future writing on this matter.
Not trying to inject anything into this writing but the fact is that when a traveler passed through Hinesville on the way east the Homer Smith homestead would be the last occupied by white people before approaching the McIntosh community which was composed of predominantly Negros as they were referred to at that time. I feel like I might just as well clear the air on this matter as the entire world seems to get "hung up" on political correctness these days. I simply had the experience of growing up with my Grandma being our neighbor to the west and all beyond her were white until you reached the western edge of Hinesville a distance of about seven or eight miles.
On the other hand when traveling east after passing the Smith homestead all of the neighbors were black until you reached the railroad which bisected the McIntosh community at a right angle with the Old Sunbury road which also bisected the community. You might say that McIntosh community was clustered around the crossroads of the highway and the railroad. My childhood and early adulthood was a time of racial segregation of white and colored people.
On the eastern side of our place our next door neighbor was the Perry family. Their house was located less than 150 feet from our back porch. The Perry's owned a five acre tract which rested between the road and swamp and the original Quarterman place and the Octavia Sullivan place. The Perry's were excellent neighbors and all to the best of my knowledge became good citizens and many of their descendents are still active in our area.
The Perry family as I knew it was the Mother Martha and several sons and daughters and their home was simply a structure of pine wood framed square divided into four rooms with a gable parallel with the highway. There was a front porch with a shed roof which was a few feet inset on either side so that the porch itself was about two thirds as wide as the house. The front door was just to the left of center so that when you entered you were in the left front of the four rooms. The four rooms were clustered around a chimney which was placed near the center of the house. Attached to the rear of the house was a small uncovered wooden platform at their back door. Their icebox was on that deck.
As I sit here thinking of these reflections of my childhood it suddenly strikes me as being almost unbelieveable to say that I recall a time when we had no refrigeration but I most certainly do remember just exactly that. In my earliest recollections I remember seeing the green ford truck which Mr Butler drove coming down the road with the heavy canvass cover protecting the load of ice from the wind and sun. On ice day I would see Mr Butler as he stopped by the Downs house first and then the Rahn's, Quarterman's, Grandma's and then into our driveway delivering to each household and after leaving our house he went next door to the Perry house and then proceded toward the mill. The ice truck did not go to every house because some people did not have ice boxes. I suppose I speak of about 1946 or most certainly 1947 and I suspect that I remember some things from 1945 when I would have been two years old. As I write these thoughts I am drawn back into time.
I do not know how far back my memory reaches. June and I have often discussed our early recollections as we traveled together up the road of life.I say up the road because we were getting older so we were going up the road towards "FOOLS HILL" for some.
Not trying to inject anything into this writing but the fact is that when a traveler passed through Hinesville on the way east the Homer Smith homestead would be the last occupied by white people before approaching the McIntosh community which was composed of predominantly Negros as they were referred to at that time. I feel like I might just as well clear the air on this matter as the entire world seems to get "hung up" on political correctness these days. I simply had the experience of growing up with my Grandma being our neighbor to the west and all beyond her were white until you reached the western edge of Hinesville a distance of about seven or eight miles.
On the other hand when traveling east after passing the Smith homestead all of the neighbors were black until you reached the railroad which bisected the McIntosh community at a right angle with the Old Sunbury road which also bisected the community. You might say that McIntosh community was clustered around the crossroads of the highway and the railroad. My childhood and early adulthood was a time of racial segregation of white and colored people.
On the eastern side of our place our next door neighbor was the Perry family. Their house was located less than 150 feet from our back porch. The Perry's owned a five acre tract which rested between the road and swamp and the original Quarterman place and the Octavia Sullivan place. The Perry's were excellent neighbors and all to the best of my knowledge became good citizens and many of their descendents are still active in our area.
The Perry family as I knew it was the Mother Martha and several sons and daughters and their home was simply a structure of pine wood framed square divided into four rooms with a gable parallel with the highway. There was a front porch with a shed roof which was a few feet inset on either side so that the porch itself was about two thirds as wide as the house. The front door was just to the left of center so that when you entered you were in the left front of the four rooms. The four rooms were clustered around a chimney which was placed near the center of the house. Attached to the rear of the house was a small uncovered wooden platform at their back door. Their icebox was on that deck.
As I sit here thinking of these reflections of my childhood it suddenly strikes me as being almost unbelieveable to say that I recall a time when we had no refrigeration but I most certainly do remember just exactly that. In my earliest recollections I remember seeing the green ford truck which Mr Butler drove coming down the road with the heavy canvass cover protecting the load of ice from the wind and sun. On ice day I would see Mr Butler as he stopped by the Downs house first and then the Rahn's, Quarterman's, Grandma's and then into our driveway delivering to each household and after leaving our house he went next door to the Perry house and then proceded toward the mill. The ice truck did not go to every house because some people did not have ice boxes. I suppose I speak of about 1946 or most certainly 1947 and I suspect that I remember some things from 1945 when I would have been two years old. As I write these thoughts I am drawn back into time.
I do not know how far back my memory reaches. June and I have often discussed our early recollections as we traveled together up the road of life.I say up the road because we were getting older so we were going up the road towards "FOOLS HILL" for some.
Thursday, May 9, 2013
I said earlier that Georgia was an open range state until 1953 I believe. I'm not certain about the year that "the fence law" was enacted but I think it was 1953. At any rate I would have been 10 years old in 53 and if I had been allowed as well as encouraged to shoot Mrs Rahn's cows to drive them out onto the highway ditches before the repeal of "open range" I must have gotten my first BB gun when I was about seven years old because some later year I got a more powerful BB gun a Daisy Pump. I know I received the 410 for Christmas in the sixth grade for a Christmas present from Santa. I was six when I started first grade and I would have turned twelve in the spring of my sixth year of school.
When I was in sixth grade there was a nice family boarding with Grandma in the Greenhouse. The Walkers had come from Sanford, Fla and they had two little boys who were about two and three years younger than me. Johnny Walker and his wife Billie with her two sons Butch and Bubba Mills had come to live with Grandma the year before sixth grade and they lived here for about two years. Their presence next door would bring a whole new world to a young Jimmy Smith. As it turned out Johnny had been a young associate of Billie and her husband who owned a pawn shop in Sanford and they also owned a nice country home on the out skirts of town. They moved to McIntosh to rent half of Grandma's house while Johnny fulfilled his two year enlistment in the Army. It seems that Mr Mills had died at a young age and left Billie and two little boys without a father. Johnny had been from a very poor family (simply a Florida cracker) and had worked for Mr Mills in his business interest before his death. When Mr Mills died Johnny married Billie and they came to Camp Stewart for a two year enlistment.
They brought with them a 1951 Oldsmobile and a 1951 Studebaker pick up truck as well as Johnny's Harley Davidson motorcycle. They made frequent trips to Florida for brief visits. Butch and Bubba instantly became much of my after school entertainment. The Walkers would go to the drive in theatre every time the movie changed and before very long I came to be invited to go along.
It would come to pass that I would take my first motorcycle ride with Johnny as well as my first flight in an airplane. An old Hinesville legend Richard Helms (a non college educated but licensed attorney because he passed the bar exam) owned a two seat er airplane and it was kept at what was jokingly referred to as Gibbs international airport across the road from the Hinesville cemetery. The airplane was an Ercoupe with an unusual design. I think it might have had dual tail uprights. Maybe Jamey can dig up a picture of one. Anyway it was a small single engine with the cockpit above the front wings. The top of the cockpit was merely a front and rear windshield with an overhead sliding door entrance into the seat. You entered by stepping up onto the right hand front wing and over into the two seats. Once seated you simply pulled the sliding plastic panel over to the edge if you wanted to close the top. You could slide the two plastic panels to the center of overhead and the cockpit was open air with each side open but the passengers had the two plastic panels above them. As I said it was a unique design and it was a thrill just to sit in it at my young age.
Richard Helms was an eccentric local legend in old Liberty county. He and I became acquainted when I was a little boy. Johnny Walker was a licensed pilot before he and the family moved to Liberty county. The Gibbs family owned a large farm on highway 82 between Hinesville and Allenhurst. They mostly raised cattle and their herd roamed the woods between highway 82 (now 84) and the Atlantic Coastline railroad. I'm speaking of the area just east of the Cherokee Rose golf course. Back in the forties some of the Gibbs family became interested in flying and owned at least one airplane. Not long after we got our first automobile Daddy took me to Gibbs field one day to watch people get into the plane and take short flights. I'm not sure if it was a special occasion or something that occur ed on a regular basis. I think I accompanied Daddy to the airstrip more than once but I'm positive that I visited at least one time. At any rate the airstrip was dirt and grass and the runway was at a right angle from the highway. The strip backed up to the road just across from the turnoff to go to the Hinesville cemetery.
The Walker family came into our midst when I was in the fifth grade and went back to Florida when I was in the seventh grade. It was during this time that Richard Helms owned his airplane and most of the time it was kept at a small airstrip on highway 80 just out of Savannah on the way to Tybee. That is where he took it for service and maintenance.
In years past the family of Mr John Gibbs became aviators shortly after the end of the war. I've been told that the government created a program to pay former veterans to learn how to fly airplanes. Allegedly Mr Gibbs and his two sons learned how to fly and might have all owned airplanes as I remember seeing more than one airplane there when Daddy took me to see the place one day in the late forties. The Gibbs farm was probably almost equal to Cherokee Rose country club and it encompassed a long highway frontage from the eastern edge of the country club to a large drainage
ditch on the western edge just across the road from the American Legion.
The place was known as Gibbs field and before the fence law was enacted in 1953 I guess the airplanes were kept in a fenced compound so as to keep the cows away. I recall a huge barn type building with shed roof structures on either side of the front of the structure so that an Airplane could be enclosed within the building. In her later days the widow of Mr Gibbs continued to have a heard of cows and cultivated some of the land as well as renting some spaces for the revolutionary new house trailers, which would later be called mobile homes. The original airstrip had become a pasture for the grazing cattle.
I guess at some point Richard Helms made arrangements with Mrs. Gibbs to land and keep his airplane at Gibbs field. One afternoon Johnny Walker asked Mama if he could take me with him to do some sort of work on the airplane. He and Richard both frequently would tinker with things on the plane and then take it up for a quick test. Before too long I begged Mama and Daddy to let me go up with Johnny. Permission was given and at the ripe old age of ten years old I took my first airplane ride. I sat in the right hand seat and off we went. As I recall the cockpit was just slightly forward of the forward edge of the main wing. Seated in the plane you could look down at the front edge and have a clear view below. When we arrived at the airstrip the plane was parked near the highway and there was a ramp from the road where we parked the 1951 Studebaker pickup and simply climbed the fence to enter the airstrip.
That tiny little airplane was the most marvelous thing I had ever seen at the time. I was in fifth grade I think and until that time I had only known and experienced a world between Claxton, Metter and Savannah. Daddy's sister Aunt Dell at one time lived in Metter where Uncle Brunell Burkhalter ran a hardware store. Several Aunts and Uncles lived in Claxton and some in Bulloch and Bryan counties. Thus at ten years old my world had less than a one hundred mile radius of McIntosh. Gibbs field was probably about five or six miles from home located on the same highway. As the crow flies it would have been much closer. Highway 84 although considered to be an east-west road has a direct virtual ninety degree turn in the center of Flemington at what would come to be known as McLarry's curve.
The airplane was backed up to the fence and positioned headed straight toward the airstrip which was positioned at a nearly right angel to the highway. The far end of the airstrip would approach the lowlands near the Atlantic Coastline railroad which stretched from Savannah to Waycross passing through McIntosh and Allenhurst with stations located at McIntosh and Walthourville. With much excitement and absolutely no fear I eagerly climbed up onto the right wing behind Johnny and we both stepped into the cockpit and I think we had seat belts but I have no memories of them. I do recall being fascinated by the clear plastic bubble which covered the cockpit.
When I was in sixth grade there was a nice family boarding with Grandma in the Greenhouse. The Walkers had come from Sanford, Fla and they had two little boys who were about two and three years younger than me. Johnny Walker and his wife Billie with her two sons Butch and Bubba Mills had come to live with Grandma the year before sixth grade and they lived here for about two years. Their presence next door would bring a whole new world to a young Jimmy Smith. As it turned out Johnny had been a young associate of Billie and her husband who owned a pawn shop in Sanford and they also owned a nice country home on the out skirts of town. They moved to McIntosh to rent half of Grandma's house while Johnny fulfilled his two year enlistment in the Army. It seems that Mr Mills had died at a young age and left Billie and two little boys without a father. Johnny had been from a very poor family (simply a Florida cracker) and had worked for Mr Mills in his business interest before his death. When Mr Mills died Johnny married Billie and they came to Camp Stewart for a two year enlistment.
They brought with them a 1951 Oldsmobile and a 1951 Studebaker pick up truck as well as Johnny's Harley Davidson motorcycle. They made frequent trips to Florida for brief visits. Butch and Bubba instantly became much of my after school entertainment. The Walkers would go to the drive in theatre every time the movie changed and before very long I came to be invited to go along.
It would come to pass that I would take my first motorcycle ride with Johnny as well as my first flight in an airplane. An old Hinesville legend Richard Helms (a non college educated but licensed attorney because he passed the bar exam) owned a two seat er airplane and it was kept at what was jokingly referred to as Gibbs international airport across the road from the Hinesville cemetery. The airplane was an Ercoupe with an unusual design. I think it might have had dual tail uprights. Maybe Jamey can dig up a picture of one. Anyway it was a small single engine with the cockpit above the front wings. The top of the cockpit was merely a front and rear windshield with an overhead sliding door entrance into the seat. You entered by stepping up onto the right hand front wing and over into the two seats. Once seated you simply pulled the sliding plastic panel over to the edge if you wanted to close the top. You could slide the two plastic panels to the center of overhead and the cockpit was open air with each side open but the passengers had the two plastic panels above them. As I said it was a unique design and it was a thrill just to sit in it at my young age.
Richard Helms was an eccentric local legend in old Liberty county. He and I became acquainted when I was a little boy. Johnny Walker was a licensed pilot before he and the family moved to Liberty county. The Gibbs family owned a large farm on highway 82 between Hinesville and Allenhurst. They mostly raised cattle and their herd roamed the woods between highway 82 (now 84) and the Atlantic Coastline railroad. I'm speaking of the area just east of the Cherokee Rose golf course. Back in the forties some of the Gibbs family became interested in flying and owned at least one airplane. Not long after we got our first automobile Daddy took me to Gibbs field one day to watch people get into the plane and take short flights. I'm not sure if it was a special occasion or something that occur ed on a regular basis. I think I accompanied Daddy to the airstrip more than once but I'm positive that I visited at least one time. At any rate the airstrip was dirt and grass and the runway was at a right angle from the highway. The strip backed up to the road just across from the turnoff to go to the Hinesville cemetery.
The Walker family came into our midst when I was in the fifth grade and went back to Florida when I was in the seventh grade. It was during this time that Richard Helms owned his airplane and most of the time it was kept at a small airstrip on highway 80 just out of Savannah on the way to Tybee. That is where he took it for service and maintenance.
In years past the family of Mr John Gibbs became aviators shortly after the end of the war. I've been told that the government created a program to pay former veterans to learn how to fly airplanes. Allegedly Mr Gibbs and his two sons learned how to fly and might have all owned airplanes as I remember seeing more than one airplane there when Daddy took me to see the place one day in the late forties. The Gibbs farm was probably almost equal to Cherokee Rose country club and it encompassed a long highway frontage from the eastern edge of the country club to a large drainage
ditch on the western edge just across the road from the American Legion.
The place was known as Gibbs field and before the fence law was enacted in 1953 I guess the airplanes were kept in a fenced compound so as to keep the cows away. I recall a huge barn type building with shed roof structures on either side of the front of the structure so that an Airplane could be enclosed within the building. In her later days the widow of Mr Gibbs continued to have a heard of cows and cultivated some of the land as well as renting some spaces for the revolutionary new house trailers, which would later be called mobile homes. The original airstrip had become a pasture for the grazing cattle.
I guess at some point Richard Helms made arrangements with Mrs. Gibbs to land and keep his airplane at Gibbs field. One afternoon Johnny Walker asked Mama if he could take me with him to do some sort of work on the airplane. He and Richard both frequently would tinker with things on the plane and then take it up for a quick test. Before too long I begged Mama and Daddy to let me go up with Johnny. Permission was given and at the ripe old age of ten years old I took my first airplane ride. I sat in the right hand seat and off we went. As I recall the cockpit was just slightly forward of the forward edge of the main wing. Seated in the plane you could look down at the front edge and have a clear view below. When we arrived at the airstrip the plane was parked near the highway and there was a ramp from the road where we parked the 1951 Studebaker pickup and simply climbed the fence to enter the airstrip.
That tiny little airplane was the most marvelous thing I had ever seen at the time. I was in fifth grade I think and until that time I had only known and experienced a world between Claxton, Metter and Savannah. Daddy's sister Aunt Dell at one time lived in Metter where Uncle Brunell Burkhalter ran a hardware store. Several Aunts and Uncles lived in Claxton and some in Bulloch and Bryan counties. Thus at ten years old my world had less than a one hundred mile radius of McIntosh. Gibbs field was probably about five or six miles from home located on the same highway. As the crow flies it would have been much closer. Highway 84 although considered to be an east-west road has a direct virtual ninety degree turn in the center of Flemington at what would come to be known as McLarry's curve.
The airplane was backed up to the fence and positioned headed straight toward the airstrip which was positioned at a nearly right angel to the highway. The far end of the airstrip would approach the lowlands near the Atlantic Coastline railroad which stretched from Savannah to Waycross passing through McIntosh and Allenhurst with stations located at McIntosh and Walthourville. With much excitement and absolutely no fear I eagerly climbed up onto the right wing behind Johnny and we both stepped into the cockpit and I think we had seat belts but I have no memories of them. I do recall being fascinated by the clear plastic bubble which covered the cockpit.
Wednesday, May 8, 2013
I got my first gun a Mossberg bolt action 410 gauge shotgun for Christmas when I was eleven years old. I would receive my second when I was a few years older. My second gun was a double barreled 12 gauge Stevens brand. Before those I had been given as Christmas presents two BB guns. The second was a Daisy pump and the first was a lever action "Red Ryder" style. The first one was received at a very early age although I can only speculate as to my age when I received it. I was not able to cock it when I first got it. I remember having to get June to help me cock it for a while. That proved to be ill advised as one day she, after having cocked the damn thing, decided to shoot me with it. We were both just outside of the kitchen window playing at the gate to the back yard. She cocked it and then instead of turning it over to me she pointed it at me and threatened to shoot. I held my hands up as if to avoid being shot but guess what. She pulled the trigger. I was dressed in my usual attire of the time. I wore only a pair of short homemade pants which had elastic around the waist and might have sported one little pocket on the backside. The BB hit me in the center of the chest and I started to charge at June before she could cock the gun again. June is three years older than me and the two of us got into many many fights up until I started to get strong enough to get the best of her. She took great delight in pinching, kicking, slapping and biting as well as shoving and wrestling. I was stopped by Mama's screaming as she came out of the kitchen and onto the back porch. Although the BB did hurt some it did not break the skin and as I realized that Mama had been witness to the shooting I instantly took more delight in being the victim and enjoyed Mama's scolding of June as she pampered me with her attention to the "gunshot" wound in my chest. Heck you could barely see a slight red spot but I enjoyed the attention and especially the attention Mama was giving June for having shot her darling little defenseless brother.
The Red Ryder BB gun was the first gun that would actually fire a projectile. I was not only allowed but was encouraged to use it to drive the cows out of the open space between our house and Grandma's house next door.
The Red Ryder BB gun was the first gun that would actually fire a projectile. I was not only allowed but was encouraged to use it to drive the cows out of the open space between our house and Grandma's house next door.
Thursday, May 2, 2013
.410
As a small boy I always remember having toy guns. Sometimes they were toy pistols which were meant to be "cowboy" guns as we played cowboys and Indians all of the time. I didn't have to grow very old before I came to the realization that the Indians were not the bad guys after all. Grandmama proudly declared to me at a very young age that I was part Indian. She and her children had the look of an Indian and I've always accepted it as fact that we indeed are at least partially of Indian descent. Some of our ancestry came from North Carolina and I imagine that was where our blood became mixed.
At any rate as a small boy I was drawn to the outdoors especially the swamp which was not more than a hundred yards from our backyard. Children then were not indoor creatures, especially little boys. I had the benefit of an older brother exactly ten years older than me who taught me quickly where the limits were to my adventures. To this day I spend quality "think time" at the very spot where Homer first left me alone in the woods. That spot is sacred to me and it is where I go for sunrise every Easter. I am speaking of the corner of the lower of two ponds which I share ownership with the school board as it is the storm water detention complex for the Liberty County high school.
I imagine that I was probably about four or maybe five that first time Homer took me hunting with him. He took me with him only because Mama made him do it. He cut the outing short because soon after he left me at the waters edge I became restless. We were at the northeastern corner of the rear field of the Quarterman estate. We were taught to respect the owners of neighboring property and skirt around fences until we got to the edge of the swamp. Once at the edge of the swamp we either skirted around or walked along the trunks of fallen trees which conveniently formed bridges across the swamp. I thought little of wading out into water above my knees at an early age. There were a few places in the swamp where the water might be three or more feet deep but not many and they were not large in area.
In my youth there were never any alligators seen in the Goshen by myself or reported by anyone else. The gators came after the swamp was channelized in 1974. The first ones ever reported were in the ponds created by Judge Fraser which are located at the swamps intersection with the highway. I believe I have lost one beloved little dog to the gators and I don't want to experience that again. About the only wild game critters seen in my early years were Deer, Turkey, Squirrel, Rabbit and many kinds of birds.
There always has been a presence of snakes of many varieties but mostly moccasins There was as I recall only an occasional rattlesnake. It was our custom to kill any and all snakes up until I closed the Corner bar and built my barn. I was at that time almost fifty and I had experienced a change of attitude about non poisonous snakes. I had learned that some snakes were actually a benefit to have around. The yellow corn snake, or commonly called the garter snake, is especially peaceful and a thing of beauty. About twenty years ago I encountered one near the barn and he and my dog Samboling as well as myself learned to be tolerant of each other's presence I soon named the snake SS for sneaky snake. There were many chance encounters and he ultimately took up residence inside an old draft beer cooler which I have stored in the barn. Many times I watched him lay across the path before me and Sam and we simply stepped over him. Our presence did not seem to bother him. Mama never really liked the idea of allowing any snake to escape the .410.
I remember one day when it was extremely hot and I walked past a large plastic tub which sat out behind the barn and was full of rainwater, I noticed SS's nose sticking up at the water's surface. He had decided to cool it in the tub of water. There were many such encounters. Mama never really liked SS and in the end she had her way with him. It was only about a month or so after her death that I discovered the original SS shortly after his death in Mama's barn. In those first few weeks after Mama's death I often spent hours during the day just poking around in her storage buildings as well as the house. That was my way of enduring my grief over her death and I still enjoy some time doing that even now. I learned at a very young age the pain of the lose of a very close loved one. The grief at first is almost overwhelming but in fact it is not that. Eventually one finds closure and there is comfort in that. At any rate one sunny morning around Thanksgiving I found myself in Mama's back yard and something compelled me to go and open the barn door. Right before me lay the remains of SS entangled in the netting which Mama had taken off of her strawberry plants. The net was for protecting the strawberry fruit from birds. Well SS had stuck his head through it and then could not get back out of it. He had only been dead for a matter of hours as his body though lifeless was still vibrant and flexible. I looked at him and could not help but think about Mama and her having her way after all. I stood there almost in tears thinking about my Mama but slowly I broke into a huge smile as I turned my gaze upward toward the pecan trees and in my mind I could here her words "Well God's little critters need to keep their ass out of my Pecan trees".
Those words were Mama's immediate response sometime a few years earlier after I questioned her regarding the sound of the shotgun several times early one morning and instantly heard the sound of the shot as it fell around me as I was about two or three hundred feet from where Mama was with the gun. A short time later I joined Mama for a brief visit and I inquired about the gunshots earlier and she said she had been shooting the squirrels in the pecan trees. I said to her, Mama you should not be shooting God's little critters. She immediately responded "Well God's little critters need to keep their ass out of my pecan trees". She could be a woman of few words but she said what was on her mind. And she meant it also. I stood looking at the remains of Sneaky Snake and could not help but think well God's little critter should have stayed out of her barn and he would not have become trapped in the net. Such is life and death of God's critters.
At any rate as a small boy I was drawn to the outdoors especially the swamp which was not more than a hundred yards from our backyard. Children then were not indoor creatures, especially little boys. I had the benefit of an older brother exactly ten years older than me who taught me quickly where the limits were to my adventures. To this day I spend quality "think time" at the very spot where Homer first left me alone in the woods. That spot is sacred to me and it is where I go for sunrise every Easter. I am speaking of the corner of the lower of two ponds which I share ownership with the school board as it is the storm water detention complex for the Liberty County high school.
I imagine that I was probably about four or maybe five that first time Homer took me hunting with him. He took me with him only because Mama made him do it. He cut the outing short because soon after he left me at the waters edge I became restless. We were at the northeastern corner of the rear field of the Quarterman estate. We were taught to respect the owners of neighboring property and skirt around fences until we got to the edge of the swamp. Once at the edge of the swamp we either skirted around or walked along the trunks of fallen trees which conveniently formed bridges across the swamp. I thought little of wading out into water above my knees at an early age. There were a few places in the swamp where the water might be three or more feet deep but not many and they were not large in area.
There always has been a presence of snakes of many varieties but mostly moccasins There was as I recall only an occasional rattlesnake. It was our custom to kill any and all snakes up until I closed the Corner bar and built my barn. I was at that time almost fifty and I had experienced a change of attitude about non poisonous snakes. I had learned that some snakes were actually a benefit to have around. The yellow corn snake, or commonly called the garter snake, is especially peaceful and a thing of beauty. About twenty years ago I encountered one near the barn and he and my dog Samboling as well as myself learned to be tolerant of each other's presence I soon named the snake SS for sneaky snake. There were many chance encounters and he ultimately took up residence inside an old draft beer cooler which I have stored in the barn. Many times I watched him lay across the path before me and Sam and we simply stepped over him. Our presence did not seem to bother him. Mama never really liked the idea of allowing any snake to escape the .410.
I remember one day when it was extremely hot and I walked past a large plastic tub which sat out behind the barn and was full of rainwater, I noticed SS's nose sticking up at the water's surface. He had decided to cool it in the tub of water. There were many such encounters. Mama never really liked SS and in the end she had her way with him. It was only about a month or so after her death that I discovered the original SS shortly after his death in Mama's barn. In those first few weeks after Mama's death I often spent hours during the day just poking around in her storage buildings as well as the house. That was my way of enduring my grief over her death and I still enjoy some time doing that even now. I learned at a very young age the pain of the lose of a very close loved one. The grief at first is almost overwhelming but in fact it is not that. Eventually one finds closure and there is comfort in that. At any rate one sunny morning around Thanksgiving I found myself in Mama's back yard and something compelled me to go and open the barn door. Right before me lay the remains of SS entangled in the netting which Mama had taken off of her strawberry plants. The net was for protecting the strawberry fruit from birds. Well SS had stuck his head through it and then could not get back out of it. He had only been dead for a matter of hours as his body though lifeless was still vibrant and flexible. I looked at him and could not help but think about Mama and her having her way after all. I stood there almost in tears thinking about my Mama but slowly I broke into a huge smile as I turned my gaze upward toward the pecan trees and in my mind I could here her words "Well God's little critters need to keep their ass out of my Pecan trees".
Those words were Mama's immediate response sometime a few years earlier after I questioned her regarding the sound of the shotgun several times early one morning and instantly heard the sound of the shot as it fell around me as I was about two or three hundred feet from where Mama was with the gun. A short time later I joined Mama for a brief visit and I inquired about the gunshots earlier and she said she had been shooting the squirrels in the pecan trees. I said to her, Mama you should not be shooting God's little critters. She immediately responded "Well God's little critters need to keep their ass out of my pecan trees". She could be a woman of few words but she said what was on her mind. And she meant it also. I stood looking at the remains of Sneaky Snake and could not help but think well God's little critter should have stayed out of her barn and he would not have become trapped in the net. Such is life and death of God's critters.
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